D, E, F

D is for drunk.

You cannot remember the last time you were drunk, sometimes you mourn that loss and are slightly confused by the person that you have become. A person with such need for control that even the tiny frisson of liberty from 4 glasses of wine rather than the allowed 2 is forbidden.
You remember legendary nights of drunkeness, tales spinning with the cigarette smoke, watching the sun come up and then walking, stiff legged, cold to the bone, back home, where a trail of clothes mark your journey from door to stairs to bath and bedroom.

E is for Ecstacy.

He was her boyfriend because he was the first person she ever dropped a pill with, so the feelings of warmth, love, joy and a universal golden glow somehow became linked to him. So, that when she looked at his face, felt his arms around her waist, she was reminded of that night and it seemed rude, discourteous to push him away, complain about his poor personal hygiene, his inability to cook a simple meal or re-stock the fridge with milk.
She took E most weekends, but never felt the rush of love again, however she continued to date him until something better came along.

F is for F***K

Not the act, but the word itself.
In cut glass tones, all the better to enunciate each crisp constonant, she constructs epic confections
“F**king F**cky, F**k wits, f**kery, all the better to curse you with.
The car is the best place for these explosions of Fs and Cs and Ks, sometimes, she is so engrossed in the structuring of her sentences of outrage against the world, that she doesnt realise that other drivers are staring at her.
She has learnt to keep her mouth shut at work.

About cathi rae

50ish teacher & aspiring writer and parent of a stroppy teenager and carer for a confused bedlington terrier and a small selection of horses who fail to shar emy dressage ambitions. Interested in contemporary fiction but find myself returning to PG Wodehouse when the chips are down View all posts by cathi rae

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